The Boy Who Played With Fire
by Annabeth-Artemis
Summary: *Discontinued* The boy with the bread wants to tell his side of the story. And so he does. R&R! Constructive criticism appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

**'Allo, loves. :)**

**So I decided to write THG from Peeta's point of view. I know it's been done a billion times, but I'm doing it anyway, okay? xD**

**Wish I were Suzanne Collins, but sadly I don't own Hunger Games.**

**Peeeze R&R! I'll love you forever. 3**

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**Part 1: The Capitol**

The smell of baking bread wafts into the room, making its way to my nose, and my nightmares are blurred when something pleasant interrupts them. My eyes slide open, blinking and adjusting to the early morning light, and I look over to the bed across the room from mine. My brothers are still sleeping, and I envy their ability to sleep in today. I walk on quiet feet to the bathroom to get dressed for my chores and try to ignore the rocklike anxiety in my chest.

I don't hate much, but even I've felt the sting of losing a friend to the big glass balls that look so innocent, but holds such malice. Such grief. Anger. Hopelessness. Fear. And about fifteen thousand little pieces of paper, eighteen of which say Peeta Mellark.

There are many words I could use to talk about reaping day, and not many of them are positive.

I make my way to the bakery through the squeaking door, warm oven air and fresh-baked bread wrapping themselves around me like a blanket. My stomach growls and so does my mother as she jerks the apron around my neck "How long did you think you could sleep!? Get started now, Peeta! We have rush orders."

I nod and head to the kitchen, pretending not to see her tearstained cheeks as she abruptly turns back to the ovens.

There's a small line of people at the counter, the bell at the door ringing almost constantly, and my mother manages them with the expertise she's had since I was small. I walk past the already-made loaves-the same smell floating from them as had woken me up and greeted me as I came in-and knead silky, moist dough with my father. We slide bread into the oven, then I begin on the next loaf when I see Gale Hawthorne walk in. He's holding a squirrel, and my father walks out and exchanges a few words with him. Then Gale plops the squirrel down and my father scoops up the nearest loaf of good bread.

Gale glances up at me, and the same calm expression I probably wear hides his anxiousness.

_How many times?_ I mouth.

His face is grim as my father hands him the loaf. _Forty-two._

I don't know Gale that well, but I am overcome with how many that is. I nod tersely and knead harder.

Gale leaves with a bell jingle, and my father turns to me, and I see how tired he truly is. "Go get dressed and get to the stand. Meet us back here when you're done."

"Okay." I push back through the bakery doors to the house, then my room. My brothers are awake now, but we don't say anything to each other. Our dog, Nickel, wags his tail as I give him a few stale bread crusts and slide on my reaping day clothes. They feel odd, smooth and starched, compared to our everyday clothes. The only pair of Capitol machine-made shoes I own are clunky on my feet, and I comb gel through my hair with difficulty. My brothers, also getting ready, both look at me through the tiny mirror.

I look at them with determination. "You alright?"

It always feels odd to comfort my older brother like this, but I don't know what else to say.

Rye, just having turned nineteen, reveals a slight smile. "You've been through what, five or six reapings? You two can survive through another one. I feel it."

"Everyone says that." Seventeen-year-old Levin remarks, checking his face in the mirror. "And then you hear your name called, no one volunteers, and it's all over."

My mouth tightens at this comment. What kind of a twisted thing to say to your brothers is that? "Rye got through them all. Mother and Father did, too. Hopefully it's hereditary."

"Just don't get your hopes up too high. It's life in paradise for a few days and then swift death in the arena, or living with Mother. Oh, or you can watch your… friend walk into the arena to her death for all I care." He narrows his empty brown eyes at us before tying on my discarded smock and loping off to the bakery.

I'm angry at this display of complete and utter carelessness. A year prior, Levin had been the quiet, scholarly one in his year. His now-void brown eyes were once a thoughtful mahogany, but he's been angry and reckless ever since his best friend was reaped. But in spite of his potentially suicidal attitude, I know that below that, there's nothing Levin values more than life. Someone else's or his own, I don't know. And the reaping for the Hunger Games is not when I want to find out.

Rye furrows his brow as he notices my irate expression. "He's just being himself, Peeta."

"No," I reply, inwardly seething. "He isn't. That's the problem."

"He knows the reaping is touchy for you. Ever since he found out about…" Rye cuts himself off. "He just knows your buttons and likes to push them."

Rye was my confidant. We're close, and he's gentle and can't say a harsh word to save his life. But he burst out at dinner one night a secret I told him, and Levin has brought it up at the worst times. In private, when we aren't at school, when I try to meet her deep gray gaze. That's when he reminds me.

To state the obvious, I don't tell Rye many secrets anymore. But I still give him a hug and turn towards the still-open door. "I'm going to go set up the stand at market."

He hesitates. "Wait."

I turn back and look at his hand. He's holding a small white pouch, which I unwrap and discover a small picture frame with our whole family. It looked spontaneous, like none of us knew the picture was being taken. But even my mother and Levin look happy, laughing at some long-forgotten joke.

"Thanks, Rye." I give him a small smile and bury the thing in my pocket.

Rye shrugs, but the gesture is tense. "I was going to give it to Levin for his birthday, but it doesn't seem like he would deserve it now, and I don't need it."

I agree with him and try to ignore the tinge of bitterness that coats his words like butter on bread. We both part and he wishes me luck; he throws on a smock and pushes through the whitewashed bakery door. I shake my head as I gather bread and pastries and walk to market, trying to dissolve the livid thoughts toward Levin in my head. _Positive thoughts today, Peeta. Today of all days._

Seeing the big warehouse that once housed coal products and now the Hob, District 12's black market, I kick away the temptation to go there instead of our stand. The prices are better-a slice of good bakery bread or a whole loaf of grain bread-for a good, filling lunch, instead of the stale roll I've been packed. And the Hob is where I see her.

I stumble a bit in my roomy shoes. _No, Peeta. You can't think of her today. You can't associate the reaping with her._

It feels like I'm talking to myself a lot lately…

I reach the stand and see Delly Cartwright in the stand across from me, conversing cheerfully with a customer. Her family runs the produce shop a few doors down from us, and we grew up together. Her parents are tired but good-natured, and I'm friends with her, but Delly makes an effort to befriend anyone she meets. I'd like to see her get angry at someone; as far as I know, it's never happened before.

The customer hands her a few coins, and as I bend to stock my breads on the small shelves, I wave to her. The squat neck turns and stringy yellow hair waves like a flag as she sees me, and her hazel eyes brighten. "Peeta! I thought it was Rye's shift today?"

"The bakery was backed up and they needed someone who's faster at kneading." I straighten and set the money box on the tabletop.

"Just as well! It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" Delly can make even reaping day seem normal with her sunny, airy disposition.

I smile at her. "Yes. Can I ask how many, or…?"

"Fifteen times," she says, and her smile wilts, eyes losing their sparkle. "And Donne has twelve."

My brow knits with sympathy. "I have eighteen. I'm sorry, Delly."

Her face has become closed off. It's clear she wants to change the subject. "Don't be. It's not your fault, Peeta."

"That really isn't that many. Besides, our families have to eat somehow, and tesserae help for sure…"

Delly says nothing, still arranging her fruits with vigor and precision.

"…Are those violetta melons?" I query after a five-second pause, pointing at the pale purple fruit.

Her eyes regain their usual twinkle, and a lopsided smile traces her lips. "Yes! We just got them in yesterday from the Capitol. They taste so good, we got a bite of one last night. Like sunset…"

She continues to chatter on like a chipmunk in Delly fashion, and I'm glad her spirit has returned. We continue to talk and sell our goods, until the sun starts beating down on me and I have to wipe the perspiration off my forehead. I look up at the big clock tower in the center of town. It reads twelve forty-five: fifteen minutes.

And yes, there are the Peacekeepers in their pristine white uniforms and shining black boots, slithering through the customers, announcing that it's time to pack up our wares. The camera crews have already started to arrive, and the air of sunniness that I'd felt just seconds before disappears, and the feeling of a cold, rainy day ensues. Already they're hanging the colorful decorations for the coming event, which is ridiculous to everyone who lives in District 12. Celebrating two of our citizens' rapidly-approaching deaths.

Obviously, however, we oblige the rules, and I say goodbye to Delly.

"See you in a few minutes!" She chirps, and pushes the button that folds the stand up. She lugs it behind her as she skips back to her house as well as she can as she lugs the large table-like stand. I do the same, wondering for the first time if Delly is hiding her true inhibitions under a convincing mask, seemingly unaffected by the invisible, grim mist that laces the air, or if she truly is happy.

Happy. Not a word that is mentioned regularly around our little, starving district. So I assume the former of my cheerful friend, and add _strong_ to her character traits.

A few minutes later, I meet my family at the door and present them with the money box. A fairly good turnout, and everyone's, even my brother's, face seems to soften with relief. We virtually never make that much, especially not on reaping day.

"Nice dinner tonight." My father remarks, and my mother even smiles a little. Maybe today won't be as bad as expected.

We all trod together silently to the square and reach it just as the clock strikes one. My parents and Rye stiffly shoulder their way through the gathering crowd and somehow make it to the front of the outside section—the section looking on to the potential tributes. I can see their expressionless faces, but then someone walks in front of me and I'm roughly shoved away. The Peacekeepers are stern-looking today, wielding their sleek black weapons and hawklike eyes scanning the crowd for a stray youth. Cameramen perch on the roofs and blend in with the shadows like bats. There's almost complete silence but for the occasional mutter and the crunching of feet against the gravel.

I stumble and recover to mentally organize the roped-off sections, by age, and find the large group of sixteen-year-olds, most of which are from this part of town. Most are my merchant friends: Delly, who smiles though her eyes are rimmed with red, and tall Pember, the son of the carpenter, with his twin brother. And more. I greet them quietly.

I don't see her, though. She must be at the back of the group, because I see her little sister fifty yards away, with the other frightened-looking twelve-year-olds. I cringe as I see her. _This is wrong,_ my brain shouts. _Twelve is too young._ This is what I always think. Every year. But the Capitol obviously disagrees.

Then I turn and see the two glass balls, up on the temporary black stage that's been set up, and the imposing black screens that hover from the Justice Building. There are three chairs in the middle of the stage, two of which are occupied, one which isn't. Sporting pink-tinted hair and a green outfit, Effie Trinket is the district's representative from the Capitol. She's murmuring worriedly to Mayor Undersee, who sits beside her, casting glances at the empty chair.

We wait for the next twenty minutes. Thirty, forty, fifty, an eternity, until finally the mayor steps up to the lone microphone and podium on the stage and clears his throat. Then he blinks down at the paper he's holding and speaks. He tells us about the series of natural catastrophic events and wars for provisions that devoured North America and became Panem—a small but peacefully generous country, sprinkled with thirteen districts that encircle the jewel of the nation—the Capitol. The Dark Days, however, threatened the security of the country when the districts revolted, leaving the Capitol with no choice but to fight back. It triumphed over twelve districts and terminated the thirteenth, writing a new set of laws called the Treaty of Treason that announced the arrival of the Hunger Games—thereby eliminating chances for a future mutiny.

The Hunger Games is an annual televised "game" where one boy and one girl from each district are presented to the Capitol in tribute, where they will be trained and sent to an outdoor arena-that can vary in climate and environment-to fight to the death over a course of a number of weeks. The last lone tribute alive wins.

I shudder inwardly as I hear this for the sixteenth time. The disgust doesn't cease, not even as the mayor continues on about how the victor gains a multitude of riches and his or her home district is showered with food monthly. It's the fact that all of the districts are helpless, can do nothing, that the head of our country is so smug with power that it can kill our children. And we just stand there like the bugs we are, waiting-some even volunteering-to be crushed under the Capitol's expensive boot.

The mayor remarks, "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."

After the reading of the list of past victors from District 12-we've had exactly two, one of whom is dead-the second, a drunk Haymitch Abernathy, stumbles onto the stage with a floppy hug to Effie Trinket. She pushes him off her, a horrified look on her face. I smother a laugh despite myself and watch the mayor, a bit flustered, introduce her.

She shakes off her discomfort, applies a smile and mounts the stairs up to the podium. I know it's fake because she's going on about how wonderful it is to be here, despite Haymitch attacking her on national television.

Then the humor's gone when she chirps, "Ladies first!" and reaches into the glass sphere that holds the girls' names.

And when the name is read, I hear it after I see her lips move.

Primrose Everdeen. Her twelve-year-old sister.

There's a five second period of an ocean of upset muttering because she's so young and everyone loves Prim anyway, and the tiny girl, golden hair in braids, walks to the stage with clenched fists. Then the general quiet is mauled by a shout.

"Prim!" A voice, female, cracking with emotion, but familiar. "Prim!"

No.

Her dark chocolate braid is tight against her head, and she's wearing a blue dress, but I know it's her. She practically runs up to the stage and sweeps Prim behind her.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" Katniss Everdeen chokes out.

And I panic.

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**So there it was! I hope you liked it! Again, please R&R!**

**~AA**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter'll be a little shorter, but I was able to work on it for six hours while I was in the car, going back from a trip and figured I'd do it. I hope you like it anyway. :)**

**Please review! I will shower my affections upon you. ;D**

**~AA**

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"No," I murmur to myself. "No."

I see the mayor's and Effie's faces becoming confused. No one remembers the last time we had a volunteer; usually, only the districts closest to the Capitol-One and Two-have volunteers. They're trained illegally until they're eighteen, too old for the reaping, so they're basically human weapons by the time they reach the arena. No one volunteers in District Twelve because we try to spend our time _not_ thinking of the reapings. Which means no training. But Katniss is smart, and strong. She hunts with her bow, and is strikingly accurate. Even my father buys game from her. Maybe she has a chance. I hope.

Then again, if chance favored her, she wouldn't be in this situation.

Effie Trinket beams. "Lovely! But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the winning tribute and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth we, um…"

The mayor has a strange look on his face as he stares at Katniss. "What does it matter?" He pauses, then asks again, "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

Primrose is clamped onto her sister and is screaming for her not to go, and Katniss is trying to push her away. I see Gale Hawthorne help her onto the stage and pluck Prim from her sister's waist and carry her away, kicking and screeching.

"Well, bravo! That's the spirit of the Games!" pipes up Effie. She looks relieved to have a little action. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen." Her face is steely, like she's trying not to cry. And no wonder. But she contains it well.

Effie Trinket grins that shining white grin at her and makes some comment about how she figures that was Katniss's sister, then, "Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

But not one clap, nor one cheer, or even a groan echoes in the large square. I see the faces of the people around me, even ones who don't know her, and there's only icy silence.

And I touch three fingers of my left hand to my mouth and then raise it above my head, in the sacred sign of love, respect, and farewell. It's something used not often but at sad occasions, but luckily I am not the only one with the idea as everyone else does the same. Her sacrifice was not often, almost never seen in our district. Newfound respect for her flowed through the crowd like a softly flowing brook. So drunk Haymitch Abernathy chooses that particular moment to zigzag across the stage, commanding the cameras to, "Look at her! Look at this one!" He locks her in a one-armed embrace. "I like her! Lots of… spunk!" He hesitates before continuing. "More than you! More than you!"

I'm not looking at him, though. I see Katniss let go of a breath just as Haymitch tumbles off the stage headfirst, unconscious, and they transfer him to a stretcher.

After he's rolled away, Effie shifts her off-kilter rosy wig and remarks, "What an exciting day! But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Before I have time to react, she's plunged a hand into the bowl and drawn out a slip. She reads off the name with perfect clarity.

I don't really process it, at first. My mind understands it as roll call at school, or my mother speaking to me angrily. A friend calling me out in the hallways before class, a phone call from our rusty old device in the bakery. My father calling me in for dinner. Not this. Anything but this.

I know the shock is clear on my face, and I try to dissipate it, but I can't. I vaguely remember my feet moving, the crowd parting, and I see Delly with her hands over her mouth and eyes shining with tears. Pember and Rolden and Marsh, all with mouths in the shape of an o. But I make my way to the stage as quickly as possible and stand on the other side of Effie.

She leans over to the microphone. "Are there any volunteers?"

No. Of course not. I run my eyes over the crowd and find Levin, standing with his arms crossed and brown eyes full of some emotion-I don't know what. Pain? Sadness? Anger? Hatred? But he doesn't speak up, doesn't volunteer.

Now I know. There is no life Levin values more than his own.

Mayor Undersee steps forward and begins to read the Treaty of Treason. I can't listen, can't look at anything now but straight ahead to the cameras or past them. I am thinking only of that day, that dreary, cold day full of pouring rain. I was twelve, and we were making the best bread anyone in District Twelve could buy. It was full of smoky nuts, tangy dried fruit, baked with butter slathered over the crust. It made my mouth water just baking it. I had slid a few loaves out of the oven and set them to the side when I heard the hollering. My mother, at the back door, hurling profanities and other words about how she hated the Seam kids digging in her garbage. I walked over and peered out from behind my mother's skirt, and that was when I saw her.

Her cocoa-colored hair was soaked, and her face was dirty, but I recognized her nevertheless, even though she probably didn't know me. It was Katniss. The girl's gray eyes were red with crying, and I noticed how thin she was. How hungry she looked. My mother made her way back inside, still glowing with anger, but I stayed. I watched the girl, who shuffled over behind the pigpen to the apple tree and sank to her knees against it, looking like she was about to give up.

It was then I remembered the bread. Two loaves, perfectly baked, chock full of the raisins and dried cranberries, walnuts and pecans. The buttery, almost creamy texture. How expensive it was.

How much she needed it.

Without another thought, I rushed back to the oven and threw the waiting loaves back in, turning the heat all the way up. It was only a few seconds before I yanked open the door and pulled out the bread. Scorch marks stained both bread loaves like an ugly scar, but I knew from experience the inside was fine.

I should've known my mother would smell it, because she came tearing around the corner and screeching at me. "Burned? BURNED? You idiotic child!"

I cringed as she brought her hand down with a crack across my cheek. I felt the sting, but obeyed her and walked outside. My feet sucked down into the mud.

"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature!" She was screaming. "Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

I began tearing off small chunks from the burned ends and throwing them into the trough. Then my mother turned and stomped away when the bell at the door rung, signaling a customer.

I didn't look at the girl, but I stopped giving the bread to the pig. I twisted my head left, then right to check that she was gone. Then I sent one loaf sailing through the air, then the other, toward her.

And I turned back and scurried inside, swinging the door closed.

Sometimes at school I try to look at her, wondering if she's ever thinking about me. Then I see her meet my eyes for an instant and she's gone, leaving me to wonder if she remembers.

I know there's no chance I could forget.

The mayor has finished reading now, and he waves his hands in a gesture that signals for us to shake hands.

We do, and I find her hand calloused yet slender-and I give it a grip of pressure, so she knows I'm on her side. For a while, anyway.

And then what can I do?


End file.
